A Study in Terror Read Free

city. I should think you would feel obligated—”
    Holmes scowled. “I am obligated to no one.”
    â€œPray do not misunderstand me—”
    â€œI’m sorry, my dear Watson, but you should know me well enough to assume my total indifference towards such a case.”
    â€œAt the risk of appearing more dense than most of my neighbours—”
    â€œConsider! When given a choice, have I not always sought out problems of an intellectual character? Have I not always been drawn to adversaries of stature? Jack the Ripper, indeed! What possible challenge could this demented oaf present? A slavering cretin roaming the streets after dark, striking at random.”
    â€œHe has baffled the London Police.”
    â€œI venture to suggest that that may reflect the shortcomings of Scotland Yard rather than any particular cleverness on the part of the Ripper.”
    â€œBut still—”
    â€œThe thing will end soon enough. I daresay that one of these nights Lestrade will trip over the Ripper while the maniac is in the process of committing a murder, and thus bring him triumphantly to book.”
    Holmes was chronically annoyed with Scotland Yard for not measuring up to his own stern efficiency; for all his genius, he could be childishly obstinate on such occasions. But further comment from me was cut off by the ringing of the downstairs bell. There was a slight delay; then we heard Mrs. Hudson ascending, and it was with astonishment that I observed her entrance. She was carrying a brown paper parcel and a pail of water, and she wore an expression of sheer fright.
    Holmes burst out laughing for the second time that morning. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. The package appears harmless enough. I’m sure we shall not need the water.”
    Mrs. Hudson breathed a sigh of relief. “If you say so, Mr. Holmes. But since that last experience, I was taking no chances.”
    â€œAnd your alertness is to be commended,” said Holmes, as he took the parcel. After his long-suffering landlady left, he added, “Just recently, Mrs. Hudson brought me a parcel. It was in connection with an unpleasant little affair I brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and it was sent by a vengeful gentleman who under-estimated the keenness of my hearing. The ticking of the mechanism was quite audible to me, and I called for a pail of water. The incident gave Mrs. Hudson a turn from which she has still not recovered.”
    â€œI don’t wonder!”
    â€œBut what have we here? Hmmm. Approximately fifteen inches by six. Four inches thick. Neatly wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Post-mark, Whitechapel. The name and address written by a woman, I should hazard, who seldom puts pen to paper.”
    â€œThat seems quite likely, from the clumsy scrawl. And that is certainly done in a woman’s hand.”
    â€œThen we agree, Watson. Excellent! Shall we delve deeper?”
    â€œBy all means!”
    The arrival of the parcel had aroused his interest, not to mention mine; his deep-set grey eyes grew bright when he removed the wrappings and drew forth a flat leather case. He held it up for my inspection. “Well, now. What do you make of this, Watson?”
    â€œIt is a surgeon’s instrument-case.”
    â€œAnd who would be better qualified to know? Would you not say also that it is expensive?”
    â€œYes. The leather is of superb quality. And the workmanship is exquisite.”
    Holmes set the case upon the table. He opened it, and we fell silent. It was a standard set of instruments, each fitting snugly into its appropriate niche in the crimson-velvet lining of the case. One niche was empty.
    â€œWhich instrument is missing, Watson?”
    â€œThe large scalpel.”
    â€œThe post-mortem knife,” said Holmes, nodding and whipping out his lens. “And now, what does this case tell us?” As he examined the case and its contents closely, he went on. “To